


Whip

by 2016jacb



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/F, abuse tw, blood tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2016jacb/pseuds/2016jacb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She can feel the heat of the other girl’s breath trace the contours of her neck. It’s coming in little puffs, short and fast and panicked.</p><p>Not that she can blame her, of course. They’re trapped in a secret enemy base in god-knows-where with absolutely no chance of escape. It seems to her that there’s a fairly justifiable reason to be panicking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whip

Skye’s been thinking about getting out a lot. Every snatched second has been dedicated to finding a way out; precious moments stolen to strain her neck over bars or peer blindly between the slats of the boarded-up windows.

All of her training, gone to waste. She can’t even get Jemma out of a simple hostage situation. Ridiculous.

Skye’s arms are wrapped around Jemma’s trembling form and one hand is rubbing up and down the panicked woman’s back. The strokes are gentle and calming (or so she hopes) and they are as much for her as they are for her friend. They help her maintain a rhythm, a balance; as long as her fingernails can keep running up and down the faded blue of Jemma’s sweater, catching slightly on the outline of her bra or a snag in the wool, she can remain in control.

She can’t help but feel blessed that she got trapped with Jemma, of all people. The one person that she wanted some alone time with, maybe to work out a few feelings or something, is now trapped with her in a steel box with nowhere to go.

It wasn’t turning out how she’d hoped, though. You would think being trapped in an 8 by 8 by 8 room with exactly one window and impending doom hanging over your head would prompt some discussion, but no. Instead, Jemma started panicking, and so now Skye is cursing herself silently while comforting nothing more than a friend. _Just for now,_ she thinks. _I’ll get those pesky feelings out soon._

Skye’s illusory control evaporates pretty fast when the first muscled goon stomps his way into the room. She can hear it coming; the metallic click of the key in the lock and the heavy breathing of a hurried soldier are telltale signs. When the door swings open silently (they have really nicely oiled hinges, for such an evil lair) she tenses, eyes fixed on the fire her captors have prepared to play with.

Jemma threads her fingers through Skye’s, but stands tall and firm, not one to cower to the enemy. She’s still shaking slightly, still reliant on Skye’s touch to stay calm, but she will not show fear.

Skye also straightens, the length of her spine extending quickly, and faces the man with a brave expression and upturned nose. She’s pulled Jemma slightly behind her for no reason in particular; she just feels that Jemma could use the protection. She might not yet be Level 1, but she has to have more fighting skills than the non-field-cleared scientist.

The goon’s eyes have lit up in excitement to see a defiant prisoner, and he licks his lips in seeming anticipation.

This does not exactly feel Skye with confidence. The last thing she needs is some creepy hired hand deciding to finally act on the crazy kinks floating around in his head.

Her eyes float to the cured piece of leather in his hand. He lets the length of dark brown cord fall to the ground, and Skye swallows hard when she sees it’s a whip. The handle is knotted and tough, and it looks like it could be a lightning bolt.

She really doesn’t feel like getting struck by lightning right now.

Their captor smiles maliciously, greedily, and raises the whip. “I’m going to ask you some questions. For every one you fail to answer, you get a bite from this puppy here.” 

Skye looks at him in bemusement. “Really? You’re going with puppy? I could think of a bunch of better-fitting names.” Stupidity and humor are her go-to tools for distraction. Unfortunately, Simmons is looking at her with the same faint annoyance and really? look as the stupid goon.

 _You’re supposed to be on my side,_ she thinks. _Thanks for the vote of confidence._

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t really don’t care what you think.” She’s successfully distracted him from his terrifying tirade for a split second, but he shakes his head like a dog clearing its ears of water and regains focus.

He raises the whip and flashes a snaggle-toothed smile in their direction. His teeth are really gross, grosser than any others she’s ever seen. They’re gray and misshapen and his breath does not smell good. There’s something rotting in there for sure.

Her focus is re-centered when she notices Simmons shaking like a leaf. Her friend is brave as hell, but only when she can see a way out of the situation. Every setback is another chance at solving the problem, unless they’re trapped in a steel box with nothing to help them and there’s literally no way out except their team coming for them.

Even mad scientist over-achiever Jemma Simmons knows when the odds are impossible, and trying isn’t worth much.

Skye can smell coconut and lavender – what a strange combination – when Simmons presses into her and her hair tries to crawl up Skye’s nose. She coughs slightly and brushes it away, trying desperately to focus on the situation at hand and not analyze exactly how Simmons smells so good. Does she use a typical shampoo, or something she makes herself? Hmm…

No, Skye. Focus.

The goon had asked her something and she hadn’t really been focusing on him, so she asks him to restate the question.

She guesses she shouldn’t have done that, because Simmons is looking at her in abject horror and the idiot with the whip is smiling smugly.

She doesn’t like that smug little grin. It reminds her of bullies taking small children’s sweets and teachers pushing her into detention and the Rising Tide guy rolling his eyes in disbelief while telling her there’s no way she’s good enough. She doesn’t know what she did to make him make that grin, but she is going to do whatever it takes to make it go away.

“Do you work for SHIELD?”

Ah, that’s it. The torture session had begun and she hadn’t realized. That’s why Simmons was – is – so upset – she thought she was going to actually answer the questions.

His grin is still there, so she grins back. All right, she screwed up a little, but she can work with it.

“Can you repeat it again? I still don’t think I caught that.” The smugness vanishes off his face, and Simmons breathes an audible sigh of relief. Double success.

“Do you work for SHIELD?” he asks again, this time through gritted teeth. He’s realized pretty quickly that she’s the troublemaker of this duo, but he has to try one more time just for consistency’s sake.

She grins wider. “Nope. Still can’t hear ya.”

He blows a deep breath out through his nose, almost like a bull would, and turns the whip in one hand. He steps forward and raises his arm, and suddenly Skye can’t think about anything but Jemma.

She franticly presses Jemma to her chest while turning her back to the attack, bracing herself for the pain while protecting the one that she loves.

The fiery leather of the devil’s tongue slices between her shoulder blades, forcing a strangled whimper from her throat. She can feel it cutting a deep line into her flesh, penetrating past her shirt and dripping fire into her veins.

He pulls his hand back, letting the braided leather fall to the side, not yet preparing for another strike. He wants to admire his handiwork first, because damn it, he is the sicko she thought he might be.

She can barely support her own weight, leaning heavily on Jemma while still trying her best to be a shield. Jemma is looking at her with fear and concern, which seems bad, but her eyes are locked with her friend’s now and she can’t tear them away.

“Are you okay?” Simmons whispers. She nods slightly, still too winded to speak. “You don’t need to protect me, you know. I can take some of this too.” Simmons says bravely, trying to wriggle out of Skye’s grasp.

Skye can’t breathe, but she also can’t let her best friend get hurt. She shakes her head violently, sucking in choking breaths, and braces her arms. She’s got Simmons pinned against the wall of their very small cage facing her, and she thinks that in any other situation in the world she’d be very turned on right now. Their bodies are pressed very close, and if she could be kissing Simmons instead of gasping for the air forced out of her by the shock of tanned hide cutting open her skin, she would be the happiest woman alive. In fact, she feels that breath returning. Maybe now, since they’re probably gonna die anyways, she should kiss her.

“What does SHIELD want with our organization?”

Damn it. That guy’s still here.

Skye forces a smile and turns her head back at him. “What organization? Seems to me all you’re doing is miscatagorizing things. People should go with other people, not locked up in these little boxes here. You have some serious explaining to do, mister.” Okay, not her best joke, but she’s limited on material here. Miscatagorizing is a word, right?

A growl crawls from his throat and he flicks his hand again, and this time she’s not fast enough to turn her face away. She can feel the hard edge of the tip catch her on the cheek as the rest of the whip bites into her spine. She refuses to let out more than a startled gasp, already tired of seeing his face light up at her pain.

She turns her gaze to Simmons, a stinging pain piercing her face, and nods stoically. She can feel blood trailing in rivulets down her back, gathering at the hem of her jeans. That sucks. She really liked this shirt, but then again, she shouldn’t have worn it on a mission. Bad call, Skye.

Simmons looks really concerned now, and maybe she should be. She’s feeling pretty hazy at this point, and she thinks that maybe her eyes reflect that.

The scientists raises a hand gently and touches the smarting wound on Skye’s cheek. Her hand feels soft and cool, unlike the brazen heat of that whip.

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly. Skye just grits her teeth and nods slightly. If she moves her neck too much, it tugs at the skin around the cuts on her back, and she can’t really handle much more pain at this point.

He asks another stupid question, but this time, Skye doesn’t have it in her to answer sarcastically. It’s just too much, and the pain on her back is intensifying and all-consuming. She’s looking into Jemma’s eyes when he flashes the lightning bolt into her flesh again, and only groans out when it makes contact. Jemma asks if she’s okay again, and she nods with tears beading in her eyes.

It becomes a cycle. He whips, Jemma asks, she confirms. It’s an uncomfortable routine. The whole fiery-pain-lighting-up-her-entire-body-part is really not doing it for her.

On the tenth or eleventh or twelfth hit (or is it twentieth? She can’t remember, and that’s what it feels like) she cries out louder than usual, and somehow the concern displayed on Jemma’s face increases.

“Are you okay?” Her tone is desperate now, failing to hide any emotion, and Skye desperately wants to keep responding with yes, yes I’m okay, yes I can continue. It’s what she’s been doing all along.

But something inside of her just snaps and the tears that reappear in the corners of her eyes finally spill over and course down her cheeks. “No, no I’m not. This is not okay,” she chokes out, the saltwater drops falling on the ground and painting her tongue and dripping on Jemma’s sweater. She regrets the words the moment she sees her friend’s expression, but she can’t take them back. It’s too late, and it’s the truth.

Before Jemma can speak, he hurls the whip across her back again, before she can even think to brace herself. She cries out for real this time, high-pitched and scared and pained. The stroke brings her to her knees, and she’s sobbing now, choking on her own tears.

The man laughs. “That’ll teach you to be so arrogant.” He tucks the whip into a neat coil and stuffs it in his back pocket. “I’ll come back later. I hope you’ll be more willing to cooperate then.”

The door clangs shut again, and they’re left in the light of nothing but a dim yellow bulb swinging from side to side on the ceiling.

Skye is still sobbing, face pressed into Jemma’s jeans, and she can’t seem to control her breathing. She’s in so much pain. So much pain. She can’t think about anything but the fire on her back.

Simmons pries Skye’s hands off her legs and guides the distraught woman onto her stomach on the floor. She steps over her friend’s legs and kneels so that she’s straddling Skye. A momentary wisp of desire flashes through Skye’s mind, but then all she can focus on is the liquid heat coursing through her veins and the blood that’s congealed on her body.

She thinks that her shirt has gone to hell entirely, because she can feel the little puffs of air from Simmons’ nose on her back again (funny, that breath feels pretty cold now) but Simmons hasn’t even touched her shirt yet.

Actually, she’s not so sure. Everything is a bit hazy at the moment, tinted red around the edges and obscured by the ringing in her ears.

She hears a ripping noise, so she turns her head so that one eye can observe Simmons. Her friend is tearing apart her own shirt, making strips that seem surprisingly even. By the time she’s done, half her midriff is showing and Skye is staring at the pale white muscle of Simmons’ surprisingly solid abdomen.

But then she feels the scientist press those strips of fabric into her back and she can no longer think. She howls, thoughts consumed by fire, and nearly passes out entirely.

Scratch that. She’s gonna pass out anyways. Who knows if she’ll ever wake up again, so now has got to be the perfect time.

“Jemma?” she croaks out, voice raspy and wavering.

Jemma’s immediately at her side, kneeling with her face bent down to match Skye’s. “Yes?”

“I’m having a hard time staying with you here, so I’m just gonna say what I need to say.” Jemma opens her mouth to protest, but Skye shushes her. “No, seriously. This is not a choice, I can feel myself passing out.”

“Anyways, Jems, I gotta tell you, I like you. I like you a lot.” Jemma nods, tears tracing her cheeks. She pauses, takes as deep a breath as her injuries will allow, and continues. “I think you’re more radiant than every star in the sky, and more intelligent than any being that might be living on them.” Yes. Good one, Skye. Sappy, but good. (She may or may not have been thinking about that line for a long time.)

Jemma lets out a shuddering breath with a sob and presses a kiss to Skye’s cheek. “That’s lovely. Thank you.”

Skye smiles dumbly, thoughts having floated up to cloud nine, and sighs. Excellent job. She finally told her best friend that she’s the most intelligent beautiful being ever. _Good girlfriend material,_ she thinks.

A wave of dizziness washes over her, despite the fact that she’s lying on her stomach on a cold metal floor. She whimpers slightly at first, but then she sighs. She can feel her conscious abandoning her, so she just lets go. “I love you,” she murmurs, and the last thing she sees is Jemma’s eyes. They’re like little stars, she thinks, but then thinking’s too hard and everything goes dark.

——————————————— 

“Skye? Skye? Skye, wake up! I need you to stay with me!”

Her cries are loud and desperate, but the woman lying in front of her remains unconscious and unresponsive. Tears start coursing down Jemma’s cheeks in earnest, because there’s nothing she can really do to help her friend.

She presses two fingers to Skye’s neck and is relieved to find a relatively steady pulse. At least she’s alive, Jemma thinks. It must have just been the pain.

She cannot believe what Skye just did for her.

As soon as they were thrown in this tiny little room, she had realized there was no escape and started panicking. Skye had just absorbed it and wrapped her up in a bear hug, rubbing soothing patterns on her back. She had nearly just died of happiness right then and there, even considering the circumstances. She was being held intimately, carefully, lovingly, by her crush.

Then that man came in and everything went to hell.

She had doubted Skye once or twice, petrified that her friend was going to give up SHIELD secrets when she asked for a repeated question. But she was just busy being herself. Sarcastic remarks and witty retorts were Skye’s calling cards, and she never failed to leave one behind.

When the torture had begun, she was determined to find a way out of Skye’s grasp and protect her. The pain that marred her friend’s features was unfair and cruel and she could help with it.

But when Skye stopped joking sarcastically, she stopped trying to escape Skye’s protective pin and instead focused on supporting the nearly collapsed woman in front of her. Every stroke of the whip sent ripples of pain into Simmons too – she hurt just watching the woman in front of her.

When Skye’s answer to her question was finally “no” she had nearly panicked. Seeing Skye give up only twisted the rusty knife that was already firmly planted through her heart.

She sighs, and checks Skye’s pulse again, just to be sure. She looks around the cage for anything, and sees an exposed wire poking out from the light bulb. She winds a strip of fabric around her fingers and yanks the wire out.

She freezes when the light flickers violently, but after a few moments, it steadies and resumes its back and forth sway across the ceiling.

She takes the wire in both hands and twists it until it feels friendly. She slices a finger on the tip in her haste; _good,_ she thinks, _it’s sharp. It’ll make this quicker._ She kneels at Skye’s waist and begins cutting what’s left of the other girl’s shirt off. The back isn’t much more than a piece of cardboard; it’s so stiff with dried blood that it’s no longer fit to be called fabric.

She works at the shirt rapidly, tracing up to the sleeve and across the neck and back down to the waist again. Her mind is filled with a blank static buzz; her hands are moving of their own volition because she can no longer think.

It’s not until she removes the sheet of blood that she realizes how bad the damage is.

Angry scarlet lines criss-cross Skye’s back like a tic-tac-toe board on steroids. The little smooth olive skin that has been left untouched is covered in blood still gushing from the open wounds. Simmons is in pain just looking at them.

She desperately wishes she had switched places and saved her friend from this. Skye is stronger than her, but she could have taken this to protect her.

She continues to rip up her shirt, gently pressing each strip to a line marring Skye’s skin. She wishes she had waited to soak up the blood; she thinks the pain of that is what caused Skye to pass out. She could really use a comforting presence right now, she thinks, and it doesn’t look like that’s about to happen. Then the cold weight of guilt slips into her stomach; why should she be upset about feeling lonely when her friend is lying half-dead next to her?

When she’s finished bandaging the angry wounds, she’s not wearing much more than a bra. She really hopes that she’s able to take her torture without the help of a protective barrier. It was worth it, she thinks, if it prevents Skye from bleeding out.

Skye is still lying there, and Jemma’s afraid that if they come back, her obviously unconscious presence will throw up signs of weakness and they’ll attack her again. So she gently rolls Skye onto her side, carefully avoiding pressing the injuries to anything, and balances Skye unobtrusively against the wall. She presents less of a target now, and that makes Jemma feel better.

She sighs and sits down by Skye’s head, pulling it slightly so that it rests in her lap. She strokes her friend’s hair softly and thinks about what Skye had been so determined to tell her.

“You’re as radiant as the stars.” That alone had nearly made her heart burst, but the last words out of Skye’s mouth made it stop entirely.

“I love you.”

Her seemingly unfathomable crush was returned. Skye loves her back. 

She can’t believe it. It’s more than she ever dreamed, more than she could have possibly hoped for in any universe. Her fingers run up and down Skye’s soft ears and absentmindedly twirl a curly strand of brown around themselves.

 _Skye loves me back._ She can’t stop thinking it, playing it back again and again and again.

But before she has any more time to absorb her good news, she hears the key turn in the lock again. She cradles Skye’s head as she slips out, guiding it to the metal floor before jumping to her feet and standing in front of her unconscious friend.

It’s the same man, rough and calloused with terrible teeth. She doesn’t see the whip, but she imagines it’s still in his pocket.

She tenses for a fight, determined to not let him hurt Skye, but flinches at the sudden mechanical shot that rings out. A little blue dot blossoms at his temple, and his eyes roll back in his head as dendrotoxin traces its way through his system.

She nearly collapses in relief when Coulson steps into the room, gun drawn and eyes haggard. When he takes in the fear written across her features, he immediately holsters his weapon and draws her into a hug.

“Thank god we found you. Are you okay?” She nods wordlessly, watching the rest of the team congregate outside the door.

He releases her, fixes her with a steadying look, and takes a deep breath. “Skye was captured with you. Do you know where they’ve taken her?” He asks, seemingly scared for the answer.

She still can’t speak for some reason, so she just jerks her head to the right. The whole team’s eyes swivel to the side, and they all take in the sight of an unconscious Skye. Jemma had rolled her to the side just enough so that she’s out of view, with her injuries facing the wall and not the team. She’s happy that her plan was enough to conceal Skye even from the team, but she’s not happy about Skye’s condition.

Coulson immediately kneels down and moves to pick her up. Simmons darts forward and almost screams, “No!”

He immediately steps back, eyes taking in her hysterical movements. The whole team is looking at her in concern, and she can’t stand it, because every ounce of concern in the universe should be targeted solely at the girl she’s fallen in love with.

She takes a shaky breath and tries to explain. “She’s in j-just her bra be-because I ha-ad to cu-ut her shirt off,” she stammers. Coulson’s looking at her in complete confusion, and she could nearly kill herself for being so stupid. She needs to get to the point, and fast.

“You can’t touch her back,” she blurts out. “She was whipped.”

The looks of horror that reflect back from every member of the team mirror her internal thoughts. She gestures aimlessly to the fact that she’s wearing not even half a shirt and explains further. “I bandaged her as best I could, but she needs medical help, now.”

Coulson just freezes for a second, absorbing it, before kneeling down and picking Skye up with exceeding caution. His hands are cradling her head and somewhere close to her rear, making for an extremely unsteady grip, but he nods and they all start running out of the room together.

They are sprinting through a grimy warehouse, guns drawn and fists prepared. She can’t remember seeing any of this, because she and Skye were captured elsewhere and brought into their cell with burlap sacks over their heads. She remembers Skye making some snarky comment about the advantages of soft cloth versus burlap and receiving multiple glares for her words.

What she would give to hear a sarcastic retort from Skye now.

——————————————— 

They charge onto the Bus, Simmons right on Coulson’s heels, and someone slams the button that forces the ramp to close. She follows Coulson into the lab, her fingers curled around Fitz’s wrist, dragging him with her.

She pulls a hospital bed out of storage while Coulson holds Skye’s unconscious form. She wheels it to his feet, and he gently flips the girl in his arms over onto the bed.

At this point, everyone save May (who is probably flying the plane as far from here as she can) is surrounding the bed, and Simmons forgets for a moment that none of them have seen the girl’s injuries yet. The solemn silence vibrates in her ears louder than any noise of surprise could.

“How…how many times was she struck?” Coulson asks after he regains his voice.

She wishes she didn’t know, but she had kept track. She had to.

“Sixteen.” She remembers Skye occasionally mouthing a number to herself, but it was always significantly lower than the actual total. Simmons hadn’t corrected her, recognizing her version of coping with the situation (straight up denial), and kept the actual total herself.

She dashes into the back of the lab, returning with arms full of thick cotton bandages and alcohol disinfectant. She comes to Skye’s side, fingers gently peeling the already blood-soaked remains of her shirt off of each wound and dropping them into a helpfully placed biohazard bag held out by Fitz.

As she works, she remembers a simple experimental medication that hasn’t been approved for official SHIELD use yet that could truly help Skye.

But screw SHIELD and their stupid rules. It doesn’t need more testing; it just hasn’t yet traveled through all the red tape and regulations and been certified. She doesn’t care what they think; her girlfriend’s going to be in pain when she wakes up, and anything possible to ease that will be happening, SHIELD sanctified or not.

Huh. She had just automatically called Skye her girlfriend. The simple thought rushes blood to her cheeks and puts a tiny smile on her face. 

She finishes disinfecting and goes into the experimental cabinet. Rifling through multiple bottles and test tubes, many brightly colored or smelly, she extracts a white tube filled with the cream she’s looking for. Fitz opens his mouth when she unscrews it, but she gives him a look so searing he’s surprised he doesn’t catch on fire, and he snaps it shut.

She’s already wearing thin blue disposable gloves, and the sharp white of the goo covering her fingers is an interesting contrast. She smears it right down a cut that had almost penetrated to bone. The skin immediately seals, oozing red fading to faint pink, and she sighs in relief.

But the amount she has is limited, so she treats the worst of the welts first, and does what she can for the others. Skye’s face down, wearing nothing on her torso but a bra, and Simmons gently unclasps it to reach the rest of the wounds. She can’t help but think that the first time that should have happened should have been out of sight and for much more romantic reasons.

When she’s finished, Skye’s back is lined with many pink lines and one or two deeper red welts. Simmons bandages those as comfortably as possible, pulls a hospital gown over the young woman’s head, and flips her so that she’s lying on her back.

Her breathing has eased slightly, and her pulse is steady and calm, but Simmons can’t predict how much pain Skye will be in when she wakes. So she sits at her friend’s bedside and waits, morphine drip at the ready.

It’s early, early in the morning when Skye finally regains consciousness. The rest of the team had left the lab, in desperate need of sleep. Simmons, however, stayed; no one could convince her to leave Skye’s side.

She hasn’t told anyone what happened in there. They’re all slightly curious as to why she’s so jumpy and so incredibly protective of Skye. They’re puzzled by the fact that Skye is in terrible shape and Jemma doesn’t have a scratch.

They don’t understand that Skye had sacrificed herself to save Jemma unimaginable pain.

So she sits, glued to the bedside of her savior.

She’s still sitting there, but she’s even more exhausted than the team, and her head is nodding against her chest despite her best efforts. Her eyelids are fluttering, body slumped, jerking back awake every two minutes, when she hears the one thing that she missed above all else.

“Falling asleep on me, now are we?” Her voice is weak and pained, but it’s there, and Jemma jolts out of her lethargic state.

Skye is smiling, head turned towards Jemma, and she can feel her heart melting when she sees Jemma’s expression. It’s an irresistible mix of relief and happiness and one other emotion she just can’t place.

“How are you feeling?” Simmons asks cautiously. 

“Pretty good, actually, considering my back was mincemeat and somehow I’m lying on it without too much pain?” she asks questioningly. Simmons nods slowly. 

“I…well, I used a medicine that hasn’t been SHIELD approved yet, but I tested it myself, and it seems to have worked…” she trails off. Skye notices her fingers intertwining nervously, right thumb rubbing left palm. She’s biting her lip, eyes darting from side to side; all textbook nervous habits, things that Skye thought Simmons didn’t have.

“Well, thank you. It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Skye says. At this, tears burning the corners of Jemma’s eyes spill over and onto her cheeks.

Skye starts to panic. “Oh, no, Jemma! Don’t be upset! I’m okay, I promise!” She sits up rapidly, ignoring the twinge beneath her shoulder blades, and puts a hand on Jemma’s. “Seriously, I’m okay.” She feels utterly helpless – why is she so upset? 

Jemma is still crying silently, doing her best to repress the sobs but failing miserably. “You shouldn’t have been hurt at all. I-I should have helped you,” she chokes out, and Skye feels her heart crack painfully.

She screws up her courage and makes a decision. Placing a hand on each of Jemma’s cheeks, she turns Jemma’s gaze to her own. “Jemma Simmons. You are a wonderful, beautiful, accomplished human being. You’re amazing and intelligent, and worth so, so much more than me. And I couldn’t let that just go away. I’m just a screw-up. There’s no one out there that needs me. But you? Your family needs you. SHIELD needs you. Heck, I need you, even if you don’t need me. And I needed to protect that.” She pulls Jemma into her arms and squeezes her tight, feeling her friend’s body shaking with the sobs.

When Jemma finally pulls away, her eyes are puffy and red and she’s thoroughly soaked the shoulder of Skye’s hospital gown. She plays Skye’s words on repeat in her mind, and immediately feels upset again. 

“Thank you, but you’re wrong.” Skye opens her mouth to protest, but she holds up a finger and gives her that searing look that she gave Fitz. It seems to be effective, because Skye shuts up.

“You’re wrong. You’re not just a screw-up, and you are most definitely needed. SHIELD needs you – you’re one of the best computer assets they have! And this team needs you – do you know how they reacted when they found you in that cell? They were horrified! They can’t stand to see you hurt. And most importantly…” She takes a deep breath and decides just to spit it out. “I need you.”

Skye is looking at her in utter confusion, and she needs to rectify that, but words have really not been her strong suit today, and action seems more warranted anyways. So she takes a fistful of Skye’s gown in her hands and uses it to drag the other girl closer. Within seconds she pressing her lips flush against Skye’s. 

Skye responds immediately, hands coming up to tangle in Simmons’ hair before deciding to roam. She pulls Jemma closer, hands now firmly around her waist, and their kiss is rapidly becoming more passionate.

Jemma can feel the warm heat of Skye’s lips on hers and nothing else. Skye can’t smell anything but that odd lavender/coconut combo filling her nose, but she inhales deeply, savoring it. They can both feel the need for oxygen, but their need for each other seems much more important at the moment, and they press ever closer.

When they finally break off, Skye’s hair is ruffled and Jemma’s collar is askew. Both have swollen lips, and they stare at each other, chests heaving, identical grins painting their faces.

“I like being needed,” Skye says casually, eyes never leaving Jemma’s. Jemma nods eagerly. “Me too,” she says, equally casual.

They hold each other’s gazes for a moment more before collapsing into giggles, unable to contain themselves.

Skye’s good mood rapidly transforms into something else entirely. “So…you’re on board with this, right? You’re…cool with it?” Her tone would seem neutral to most, but Jemma knows better. It’s slightly nervous, an indication that Skye cares more for the answer than she’d like to let on.

She nods immediately, not wanting to prolong Skye’s distress. “I’m all for it.”

Skye’s grin returns and she starts scooting over on her bed. She lifts the blanket and pats the bed gently. “You’re falling asleep on your chair, and despite the fact that I’ve been asleep for probably forever, I’m about to pass out.”

Jemma hesitates for just a moment, afraid of hurting her in some way, but she relents. She really is about to fall asleep.

Skye drops the blanket as she feels Jemma’s figure pressed into her side, ice-cold toes nudging her warm ankles. She hisses and retracts, giving Jemma a dirty look. The shit-eating grin on the scientist’s face suggests that she’s not sorry at all.

Skye rolls her eyes, but lies down and tries to ignore it. Within minutes, her breathing has evened out and her eyes have fluttered closed, her body’s attempt to heal the remains of her smoldering wounds. Jemma can feel the heavy weight of sleep about to fall over her as well, but pushes herself up on her elbows and presses a gentle kiss to her girlfriend’s forehead. 

“I love you.” There. She’s finally said it back.

——————————————— 

Coulson wakes at what he considers an unholy hour (it’s only 7, but still, for what he has to deal with on a daily basis, doesn’t he deserve a little more sleep?) and strains his ears for the sound of his vibrating cell phone. To his surprise, there’s nothing, and he sits up, puzzled as to why he’s woken up naturally at such a time.

The realization hits him with all the force of a freighter, and he is immediately wracked by guilt.

Skye.

Within seconds, he’s up, out of bed, and into a freshly pressed suit. Tightening his tie as he walks out the door, he makes a beeline for the cockpit. When he opens it, he finds Melinda May already awake and on the stick as he’d hoped.

“How is she?” 

May fixes him with a hard stare. “Couldn’t go down there and check yourself?”

He sighs and fiddles with the tie. “I just thought you might know.” He’s not one to admit that he’s afraid of what he might find.

Her gaze softens, and she sighs. “I don’t – I haven’t gone down.”

Ah. So he’s not the only one who’s afraid. 

He offers a hand and she takes it, and before he can truly brace himself they’re walking down the spiral together. Hands clutching a cup of coffee May had already prepared, he turns to the lab with May on his heels and Skye in his thoughts.

The sight that greets him makes his heart flutter and relieves him of his guilt for leaving.

The girls are curled up on top of one another, limbs intertwined or caught underneath each other. Skye’s hair is everywhere; Simmons’ face, the pillow, her mouth. Simmons has wrapped an arm around Skye protectively, pulling her even closer. Their noses are nearly brushing, and both are utterly and completely asleep. 

He looks at May to find that the sight has melted even her heart. A tiny smile has taken up residence on her lips, and he finds that it looks quite good on her. 

She turns to him. “I think Simmons felt bad that Skye was protecting her. Seems like they worked it out.”

Well, it would certainly explain Simmons’ outright refusal to leave Skye’s side, or her determination to do whatever necessary to ease her friend’s pain. Seeing a strand of Skye’s unruly mane float up and fall back down on Simmons’ breathing, he realizes that their relationship might have finally changed.

“I think Ward owes me ten bucks,” he murmurs thoughtfully. May smiles again. “Fitz owes me twenty,” she says.

They watch the girls for a moment longer before May turns away and stalks back up to the cockpit. It’s creepy to just watch them, he thinks, and so he follows suit.

Simmons presses closer to her girlfriend and sighs, her warm breath tickling Skye’s cheek, and everything on the Bus is finally okay.


End file.
